Cards on the Table
by Vermin Disciple
Summary: And whatever Vic said, whatever he promised, there was never a straight flush or a full house, and only occasionally did she spy a single pair. Ruth Tyler, Gen


Ruth was not a woman who believed in taking risks. She was the middle child, the sensible one, the one whose reach did not extend her grasp. She believed in good plans and good common sense. And she had never suspected that there was anything risky about marrying Vic Tyler. She was young and had never thought of marriage as a gamble, nor had it ever occurred to her that Vic might be playing with some of his cards far too close to his chest.

"He's a good man," said her mother, on the day of Ruth's wedding. "He has an honest face."

"You're a lucky woman," said her sister Beth, with a wistful little sigh.

Her sister Heather said nothing, pursing her lips and raising a well-manicured eyebrow. She had already made _her_ opinions quite clear.

"It's intuition," she had said. "Sometimes you have to trust your instincts, and _my_ instincts are telling me—"

But Ruth had cut her off, and told her to mind her own business (what are sisters for?), and told her exactly what she thought of her so-called instincts (though she knew they were rarely wrong), and accused her of being jealous (which was really just absurd), and they had a very sisterly sort of row over it.

Heather didn't even have suspicions, just _feelings_. She had seen no evidence of anything untoward in Vic.

Her mother was right; Vic had an honest face. He had a gentle, unassuming smile, as if he was utterly surprised that anyone would pay any attention to him at all. He was sweet and well-mannered and he had a job, even if it wasn't a very glamorous one. And his eyes lit up when he spoke of his dreams for _them_, for _their_ future. He had so many dreams.

* * *

Ruth believed in coupons and thrift shops, and putting money aside to save for a comfortable future. Vic believed in grand schemes and horse races and trying his damnedest to drag that future here _now_, and Ruth could finally see the cards on the table, lining up, one by one.

And whatever Vic said, whatever he promised, there was never a straight flush or a full house, and only occasionally did she spy a single pair.

Ruth learned a great deal about gambling in those days, though she rarely saw any cards of the non-metaphorical variety. Mostly though, she learned that Vic was the kind of man who would never fold; not when it mattered and not when it didn't. When something went right for Vic, he acted as though he had never lost and would never lose again. _This_ time, we can have it all, everything we want, whatever your heart desires, if I can just…

His eyes still lit up when he spoke of dreams, and he still had that gentle, unassuming smile; the one he always used when he lied.

And her eyes narrowed at another crooked landlord in another shabby flat, with her arms weighed down by a squirming toddler, and her purse not weighed down by much at all.

It was only a matter of time, really, before Vic finally shuffled his cards and moved on to try his luck at a different table.

When Vic left, the police told her that he was running away. But she knew that wasn't the whole of it, because Vic was, in her experience, always running toward something. He ran to new ideas or new plans or new devils to sell his soul to. At least in this latest risk, he had not endeavored to drag her down with him.

* * *

Ruth believed very strongly that a mother should not take risks with her child's life, but she also understood all too well that she could not prevent him from taking his own risks.

Sam was always cautious, but never as cautious as Ruth would have preferred.

So she found herself both horrified and unsurprised the first time she saw him lying there in that hospital bed, looking more dead than asleep. Ruth couldn't do anything for him and she couldn't let him go; Heather had been right, all those years ago – you have to trust your instincts, sometimes, and she could feel Sam's presence in the room, lurking somewhere behind those lifeless eyes.

There was nothing to be done; until one day there was.

"A tumor," the doctor said. That was the reason, they said. That was what was keeping him there, on those crisp white sheets. "We might be able to revive him, but it will be a risky procedure."

Vic had taken every risk that came his way, great or small. He must have enjoyed it, even when he lost. Ruth hated it, as she always had, but she had learned an invaluable lesson about gambling, from Vic's many losses and few gains: Ruth knew _when_ the risk was worth it. She knew the answer wasn't never.

"We don't know if he's strong enough to survive this operation," the doctor confessed. "It's your decision."

Life or death, the flip of a coin, the turn of a card: having her son back was worth the risk of losing him, when it came down to it.

So she said yes. Do it, do whatever it takes.

And for the first time, Ruth found herself holding a royal flush, no need to bluff or fold.

Sam opened his eyes. Soon she would see him smile again – she would bet her life on it.

_Finis_


End file.
